


Ain't Nothin' Funny About Running Away With You

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Fortune Telling, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-10-07 02:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17356910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: The Strilondes were born into the circus life. They make it look very appealing, even when they're a bit hopeless. (Especially when they're a bit hopeless.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a self-indulgent AU where shipping and such happens. It's not gonna have real world logic, it's the magic of the circus, baby!
> 
> (Also yes, the fortune Dave gives Karkat is word-for-word the one Ron gives Harry in the 3rd Harry Potter book. I don't know how to read tea leaves!)

It’s fucking hot. It’s fucking hot and Dirk doesn’t fucking seem to feel the heat and you would do literally anything to not have to be out in the sun. But you’re half of The Stalwart Striders and so you have to fight him. The crowd around you oohs as Dirk skips back in a beautiful flying kick. His stunts are so ridiculous. Mind you, so are yours. He’s barely breathing hard, the dick. 

Dirk disarms you with a flashy flourish and stops an inch away from chopping your head off. The crowd cheers. You roll your eyes behind your shades and hold your hands up in surrender. You hold the pose for a moment and then he relaxes and you both bow. He collects tips in his cap and then the two of you duck inside your trailer. You chuck him a bottle of water and take one for yourself. You tip a bit over your head and then chug the rest. 

'You right there?’ Dirk says, his voice only very slightly amused. He might as well be rolling around on the floor laughing.

‘It’s fucking hot,’ you say.

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Yeah, well, not everyone is as chill as you.’

‘Preach,’ he says, giving you a classic bro nod. 

You tip the rest of the water down your shirt collar just as Roxy opens the door of the trailer. 

‘Hey, brothers! Need a solid.’

‘What, no, “great act, boys”? No, “how’s your day?” Just “do me a favour”?’

Roxy smiles her best smile at you. It’s super effective.

‘Rosie’s sick. Need one of you to fill in for her.’

‘Dibs not,’ Dirk says, touching his nose. 

‘We’re a sword act, Rox, there’s two of us for a reason,’ you say.

‘I can juggle,’ Dirk says.

‘Bullshit!’ you say.

He just raises an eyebrow at you. Damn, he probably can. You really do feel like you should be able to keep up with the talent of your _younger_ brother.

‘Besides, you guys have no costs involved but she has her whole setup, someone needs to take over,’ Roxy says. ‘Come on Dave, let’s dress you up all sexy and mysterious.’

‘Do I not currently look sexy and mysterious?’

Roxy looks you up and down appraisingly. 

‘You look … wet.’

Dirk snorts in amusement. Roxy’s the only one who makes him laugh with any sort of consistency. You give him the finger as you follow your her out the door. 

Rose's tent is close by, but Rose isn't in it. Considering the four of you share a trailer and she wasn't there, you're kind of surprised.

'Where is she?'

Roxy hums and picks through Rose's seer clothes without answering.

'Dude, you haven't given her to Bro,' you say. 

Roxy hums louder. You groan. Your parents have a strict division of labour policy and sickness falls on Bro's side because he has never been grossed out by anything in his life, but he doesn't exactly have bedside manners. Roxy shoves a bundle of fabric into your arms and you start changing obediently. 

You do not like wearing your twin sister’s clothes. You didn’t feel like that was a thing that needed to be said, but hell if you aren’t going to formally register your distaste for it right the fuck now. 

‘This is not fun, Rox,’ you say.

‘Yeah, you’re missing the funnest bits!’ she says, playfully groping your chest.

You look at her deadpan. How is it that Roxy can get away with shit like that? She looks at your chest a bit longer and you think she's considering stuffing something in there. You hit her in the shoulder so she stops. 

‘Whatever, no one will know it’s a dress when you’re sitting down and it’s not like any of your clothes are appropriate.'

You adjust the lacy scarf again to cover up the neckline, which is a bit more plunging than you’re used to. Hell, a v-neck is more plunging than you’re used to. You glare at the mirror.

‘You gotta take off your shades,’ Roxy says.

It’s so dark in Rose’s tent that you were kinda suspecting that, and your aviators do not match your weird silk and lace theme. Rose sure pulls this stuff off a lot better than you do. You take off the shades and slide them into a secret pocket in the dress. Roxy takes the scarf and pins it around your shoulders so you won’t have to keep touching it and starts attacking your face with makeup. You let her. It’s just easier this way.

‘I feel like no one needs to see this much of my skin,’ you say.

‘You got sexy collarbones, Davey, take advantage!’

‘How are my bones sexy?’ you ask, incredulous.

‘Now, sit your fine ass down, you got ten minutes before we open and this is a popular tent! You may want to have a flick through the books, see if you can’t fake some of this shit!’

You sit down and Roxy moves the mirror so you can see how you look sitting. It’s better. You put on your best Rose pose, tucking your fingers under your chin and trying an enigmatic smile. It comes out like a Strider smirk, but it’s not bad. And you don’t hate the guyliner. You look like a pirate. Pirates are fucking cool.

Roxy giggles and blows you a kiss before leaving with the mirror. If there’s one thing the circus is not short of, it’s mirrors. You stand up and grab a random book from the shelf. Tea leaves. You can do that. They just drink the tea and you make shit up from the patterns. Rose has definitely done that to you before. You feel better about that than staring into the crystal ball and making shit up. And the cards kinda freak you out. 

Light enters the tent as someone comes in and you flashstep back to sitting, barely avoiding tripping on your skirt, taking the book with you. 

Oh no, it’s your crush.

He’s shorter than you, with crazy black hair and eyelashes so thick you thought he was wearing makeup the first time you saw him, and you won your first fight against Dirk in six months when he was watching you last night. He scowls into the darkness.

‘You coming in or what?’ you say, because that is how people talk to the people they love. 

‘You don’t sound like a Seer,’ he says, still lingering at the door.

'I see all kinds of stuff,’ you say. Because you’re a professional. You have a feeling Rose is going to kill you after this. Eh, she was always gonna, it was just a matter of what for.

‘Do you like tea?’ you ask.

‘Uh …’

‘Because you strike me as a tea-drinker,’ you improvise. ‘And, it’s a delicious way of reading a fortune.’

He steps a bit closer and your heart just about stops. He’s too pretty. 

‘What’s your name?’ you ask.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he retorts.

‘I’m Dave, I’ll be your Seer this evening.’

‘Karkat,’ he says. He steps a bit closer again. 

You lean on your hands and do your Rose smile. Or close enough. 

‘You want to know your future, Karkat?’ you say, lowering your voice as if that will make it more mysterious. 

‘Fuck it, just give me the tea.’

You realise you haven’t made any. 

‘Not so fast,’ you improvise. ‘How’s the tea supposed to know your future if I make it?’ 

You’re so good at this. You’re not sure if it’s Karkat or the incense but you’re starting to feel a bit giddy. 

‘What’s your poison?’ You spot the teapot and little portable kettle Rose uses in the corner. You flash there and back, hoping it makes you look mysterious, not like you’re ashamed of your dress. Not that you’re not ashamed of your dress. God damn, is it more manly to own the dress or reject it, you are in a masculine pickle right here. You find leaves underneath it in a variety of flavours and bring them as well. 

‘Okay, you want to know about your career, your lovelife, just a general reading?’

‘You’re not the usual Seer,’ Karkat says.

‘Yes I am,’ you say.

‘I was here yesterday, dicknuts, I don’t think you magically changed genders overnight.’

‘Okay, rude, first of all. But nah, you're right, I'm filling in for my sister. I’m even better though, you got the limited edition model right here.’

‘You look weirdly familiar …’

‘Dude, this is not my reading, this is yours, you want love or job shit?’

‘Love! God! You’re not very good at setting the mood.’

‘Babe, I can set the mood real nice if you just give me a chance,’ you say, leaning forward. 

Then your mind catches up with your mouth.

‘Oh my god, ignore me, it’s the fucking incense, sorry, um … here, chuck this in the pot for me.’

‘Why?’

‘So it can collect your aura or some shit, I don’t know, I’m a fucking swordsman!’

‘That’s where I know you from!’

You feel a surge of pride that he recognises you. 

‘Is this going to work if you’re not a real Seer?’ he asks doubtfully.

‘I dunno man, but my sister’s legit so maybe I got the gift after all. You want to know about your future loves or what?’

‘Can’t fucking hurt, can it?’

You wonder when you both decided that polite conversation was unnecessary. It’s probably more acceptable for him than it is from you, seeing as you’re probably supposed to be professional. You really don’t speak to the customers enough to have good habits. 

He accepts the rose petals from you and holds them for a moment before putting them in the pot. The water is reaching a boil so you pour that in and close the lid to let it steep.

‘So, while it steeps you gotta think about love. Like, your past loves and present loves and your ideal future love, you dig?’

‘This is the least mystical reading anyone has ever had,’ he says. 

‘You’re too in your head,’ you say, frowning at him. ‘Talk out loud if you gotta.’

‘This is so fucking stupid, why am I even doing this?’ he mutters. ‘Okay, fine. Uh, my only girlfriend was apparently driven to lesbianism by the two weeks we dated, which, ugh. But then I dated a boy after that, so, who can judge? And he left to join a circus, not even joking, which is kinda why I agreed to come here in the first place, not that I want him back, we just haven’t seen him in a while, because he’s literally a fucking clown and … like … sorry, you probably know clowns.’

‘Yeah, I do, and I’d never fucking date one. That sucks, bro.’

He nods in agreement.

‘Okay, focus on the future, what’s Mr or Mrs Right look like?’

‘I dunno, someone who will call me on my shit? But also not give me shit? Someone who somehow likes me even though I’m a disaster? Who can convince me I’m worth liking?’

Okay, shit got real. In order to stop yourself from propositioning him, you pour his tea. Was he supposed to do that? Eh, it’ll be fine. 

‘Okay, hold the cup with your left hand and drink until only the dregs are left.’

He looks at you over the cup and you fight the urge to smile goofily at him. When he looks up at you like that his eyes look fucking anime levels of cute. 

You open the book to the section on translations. You figure he already doesn’t think a lot of your abilities, but he seems to trust the system, so he can’t get pissy about you needing the extra help. You quickly come to terms with how the book is structured while he drinks his tea. 

‘Okay …’ he says.

‘Right, so now you need to swirl the dregs, slowly, three times with your left hand. And then put it upside down on your saucer.’

He obeys, counting seriously. 

You flip the cup right way and look at it. Yeah, that’s just a bunch of really small rose petals and other stick looking things. You squint at it, like that might help it look like something. Okay, here goes.

‘Right, you’ve got a crooked sort of cross … That means you’re going to have “trials and suffering”—sorry about that—but there’s a thing that could be the sun … hang on … that means “great happiness” … so you’re going to suffer but be very happy …’

‘Well I believe you about the suffering but I’ve never been happy in my life and I don’t intend to start now.’

You laugh at his serious expression and that’s so surprising that you try and mask it with a cough. Then that turns into a real cough. This fucking incense. 

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine, just need—’ you dissolve into another coughing fit instead of talking. God damn you hope your eyeliner isn’t running. 

Oh god, Dirk would tease the shit out of you if he caught you thinking that. He’d just know, somehow. He always knows.

Karkat shoves a bottle of water into your hand and you drink it in between coughs.

‘Uh, you need fresh air?’

You nod and he half carries you out of the tent. You slump on a bench after Karkat shoos away the previous occupants. He pats you on the back gently. 

‘Feels nice,’ you say, and then you blush because you said that aloud and Jesus Christ when will your mouth stop saying shit without your permission?

Karkat frowns at you and puts his hands on your face.

‘Dave, you’re really hot, are you feeling alright?’

‘You’re really hot, maybe we should go out.’

He laughs dryly. 

‘Okay, where do I take you, circus boy? You are not fit for public consumption right now.’

‘What about private consumption?’ you say, waggling your eyebrows.

‘Okay, you’re sick. You have a fever or something and it's making you crazy. Where do you live?’

‘With Dirk,’ you say.

‘I don’t know who that is.’

‘Yeah you do, he does swords with me.’

‘Okay … Yeah, I saw him earlier, we can—are you wearing a dress?’

‘Like what you see?’

‘Oh my god. Let’s … um, do you have pants? No, okay, whatever, let’s just go this way, put your arm around me, yeah?’

Swooooooooooon.

How Karkat manages to drag you around when he’s several inches shorter than you is completely beyond you. He's like a little juggernaut. Like a squashy strongman. You want to smoosh his cheeks with your hands and then maybe bite on them a little. 

‘Hey, who the fuck are you and what have you done with my sister?’

‘Yo, Dirk,’ you say.

‘Oh, Dave … Thought you were Rose. What’s up?’

‘Swoooooon,’ you say.

‘Yeah, he’s not doing great. I think he’s sick or something.’

‘God damnit. Okay, give him here, I’ll get him to bed.’

‘Nooooo! Karkat!’ you say.

Dirk’s eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline.

‘Okay, fine, you stay with Karkat. I assume you’re Karkat? Our trailer’s just around here. The one with the guy painted on the door and his mouth kinda looks like a ham. You see?’

‘Yeah, got it.’

‘Do you want me to take him off your hands?’

‘No, he’s fine,’ Karkat says. You cling to him a bit tighter. He pats your head. You let him lead you into your trailer.

‘If you make me sick, I’m going to be cross,’ Karkat says as he lowers you down onto the lumpy couch and then arranges himself next to you.

‘Yeah, you should get out of here, right? I’m probably contagious as hell.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’

'No … but I don’t want you to be cross, either.’

Karkat sighs and pats his lap. You put your head on it and close your eyes gratefully.

‘Well, I’m probably going to be cross anyway, it’s basically my default mood. You’re fucking lucky you’re cute.’

He might say more than that, but you fall asleep almost immediately when he starts combing his fingers through your hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Dave now sick too, it's Dirk's turn to man Rose's seer tent. He likes telling John's fortune more than Vriska's.

You point out your trailer and watch as your brother is dragged away by a stranger. You’re tempted to follow, but there are people watching, so you turn back and flash them your least-awkward smile before resuming your juggling. It’s pretty awkward. 

You’re up to three swords when Roxy runs up to you and you have to catch them all before she gets in your way. If anyone could get hurt despite your totally rad control, it’s Roxy.

‘Where’s Dave? He’s abandoned his post!’

‘He got sick too, some guy took him to our trailer.’

Roxy puts her hands on her hips and looks at you with a determined expression.

‘No, Rox, I’m busy, don’t make me …’

‘Dirk, I have an ambush of tigers to wrangle! Get your butt in there!’

You set your jaw and pick up your bundle of shitty swords and other weapons. You knock on the trailer door with your head so someone will let you in. Karkat opens it and looks at you suspiciously. You hop up the steps and he wisely gets out of your way.

‘Can you open that chest for me?’ you say, pointing with your foot.

He does and you dump the weapons in the chest. You nudge the chainsaw to the bottom and arrange it a bit better so you can close it. 

‘You want me to put him in his hammock?’ you ask.

‘I’m fine, bro, chill,’ Dave slurs.

He doesn’t look fine. You’re kinda glad he doesn’t want you to touch him. You back out of the trailer before he can change his mind and get you sick as well.

You get yourself dressed in Rose’s clothes and there are fucking pants here, you have no idea why Dave was wearing a dress. You don’t put a shirt on because they’re designed with Rose boobs in mind, but you do find a suit vest that you can pull off. Very McConaughey in _Magic Mike_ , which is obviously peak fashion when paired with your purple and pink genie pants. Naturally you strap your sword belt on as a finishing touch. You repeat: peak fashion. 

You take off your cap before eyeing the makeup doubtfully. It’s not like you don’t know how to do it, you’ve worn makeup for other things before, you have to if you’re in the big tent with the spotlight and you fill in for acrobats sometimes … but yeah, this is a bit different. And it’s not like you want to ditch the shades, so you doubt anyone would notice.

You’re interrupted from your musings by the tent opening and a girl walking in. You turn around and stare at her. Wow, that's a lot of hair.

'Welcome to the Tent of Sight,' you say. 'Only $10 for a full tarot reading with eerily accurate results.'

You're reasonably sure that's Rose's greeting. It might be something a bit more spooky. 

'You really think you can tell me my future?' she says, voice demanding and _so_ very Californian.

Rose loves this tent. You love Rose. You are not allowed to fuck this up. Science and your dignity will forgive you for playing along.

'Yeah, you drink the tea and then the leaves tell me—'

The girl interrupts you, which is almost lucky because you really didn't know what you were going to say.

'Because I'm a _Scorpio_ and I guess that tells you I'm a _little too clever_ to get hooked by scammers like some kind of chump!'

'Are you serious,' you ask, forgetting your so very recent resolution to be good.

'Gotta wake up _pretty early_ to get the drop on me!' she says.

'You don't believe I can tell you your future, me, in these rad pants, but you think the dickhead at the local paper can give an accurate reading to you and 1/12th of the population? The stars aren't even in the same place as they were when the Egyptians came up with the damn system, and the whole premise that the time of your birth adds up to your personality is based on an entirely different climate and social order! And hey, even if discount Rory Gilmore _does_ take that into account, you think it's accurate? Because I have a twin sister out there wrangling tigers and probably flirting with everyone that makes eye contact with her and that's about as far away from my disaster self with my allergy to cats and general social incompetence as you can get and we were born within minutes of each other.'

She walks right up to you and gets in your face. The hair adds several inches to her height but you still tower over her. She doesn't seem to care. 

'I have a _real_ psychic,' she says. 'An actual one blessed with sight and I can tell the difference.'

'What the fuck, why would you come in here to tell me that? Are you trying to throw down? 'Cause I'll throw down, Myspace, don't you worry about that.'

'You think you can take me?'

You look at her tiny frame and then down at your biceps, just in case some magic bullshit has put you in Rose's body or something. But nope, you're still you and magic is still just as stupid as this conversation. You might be on the lanky side but you work out literally every day, you're pretty jacked. 

'I'll give you this one reading for free,' you say, trying to find some of that cool you threw out the window before. 'That don't end well.'

'I'll have you know, I'm the luckiest bitch you'll ever meet,' she says. 'I have _all_ the luck. There's no way you can compete. You should just go home.' 

You actually feel like you need to sit down confronted with this much stupidity. 

'Luck,' you repeat. 'Luck ain't nothin' when you've got a sword.'

You draw your blade. She backs up, but not as much as she should.

'Well that's hardly a fair fight,' she says. 'And basically only proves that you're garbage.'

'You want a sword?' you ask. 'I'll give you a sword.' 

You walk to Rose's bookshelf, not turning your back on the girl for a second, and grab the sword that you insisted she hide there just in case. She's all alone in this tent, she should have some form of protection from the public.

You throw it to the idiot still in its sheath. She catches it and draws it in a surprisingly graceful move. She holds it in front of her.

'You can't take me, you dumb weeaboo trash,' she says. 

You resist the urge to straighten your shades. If this was an anime you better believe there'd be an awesome lens flare reflecting off them right now. 

'I'm going to curse you,' you say.

Her eyes widen in outrage. Bingo.

'You wouldn't dare,' she spits.

'I'm totally going to curse you,' you say. 

She starts swearing at you at the same time that you start saying random nonsense words that may or may not be similar to the bullshit Rose sometimes reads to you but which are mostly just variations on 'Hoolalooloo,' type words. She swears louder, so you start shouting the nonsense words at her. 

You're both screaming and brandishing swords at each other when the tent flap opens and you freeze. If that's your dad, you are so dead. 

It's not your dad. It's a girl the same age as the psycho you're having a strange battle with. She carries herself with grace and has the kind of colourful, bold fashion sense that you associate with lesbians who don't have the slightest interest in appealing to what men say is attractive, and she's pulling it the fuck off. You lower your sword and take a more neutral stance.

'Hey, Vriska,' she says. 'I thought you were getting popcorn and then meeting me at the hall of mirrors but instead I find you having a duel. Should I come back later or do you need me to decapitate a bitch.'

You might love her. Rose would _definitely_ love her. 

'I'm so sorry,' you say. 'I let that escalate.'

Vriska tosses the sword to the ground and you wince at the rough treatment of the blade. She crosses her arms. 

'I'm done here,' she says. 

'Vriska, there's no way you didn't start this,' the new girl says. 

'Oh-my-god, you're such a meddling bitch, Kanaya!' Vriska says. 'It's, like, not even close to your business.'

'You're not the usual Seer,' Kanaya says to you.

'Uh, no, that would be my sister. I can still tell your fortune if you like. Or swallow a sword, if that's more up your alley.'

'I think perhaps four fortunes in four nights might be pushing it,' Kanaya says. 'Is ... your sister okay?'

Dave tells you that you are the worst wingman ever to have existed. You have no idea how not to fuck this up. Probably you shouldn't mention that she's probably chundering her intestines out while your Bro watches in morbid fascination and maybe brings her water.

'She's ... sick,' you say. 'Um. I could pass on your ... regards?'

'Please do,' Kanaya says with a smile. 'I would hate for her to go unregarded.' She turns to Vriska. 'Terezi would gladly handcuff herself to you if it would keep you out of trouble, you know. She even has cuffs. She's just that prepared for apprehending criminals.'

Kanaya steers Vriska out of the tent, giving you a last wave as she goes. You don't think you fucked that up. Incredible. Well, unless you count threatening her friend with physical and spiritual violence, but neither of them seemed to mind that much. 

You're kind of shaking. It happens sometimes after you do social things. This is so incredibly not the job for you. There's not enough room to juggle but you wonder if you can get away with standing in the middle of the room and swallowing swords as if that's what this very spooky looking tent with the purple fabric and the dim lights and the incense and the sign on the front that says Seek Your Fortune is for. 

You breathe deep and find yourself a bottle of water. Maybe you'll make yourself a tea from Rose's stock, that might relax you. Might somehow inject some mysticism in you. As if she doesn't drink more energy drinks than the rest of you combined. You grab her tarot cards from the low table she uses and sit on the cushions. You like looking at the pictures. 

You're working on making her a new set for her birthday, so you actually know some of the meanings from that as well as from half remembered readings from when she used to practice on you. Mostly you just like the aesthetic. 

Of course, you think your pony themed deck is going to be even better. You're looking forward to seeing how she reacts. You know her well enough to know that she takes any ironic gift and acts as though you have seen into her heart and gotten her the best thing imaginable. You don't know if that will extend to using your beautifully rendered ponies in the tent that she has put years of work into making her own. 

You feel like you've been working up to this dare every day for the 22 years you've been living and looking up to her as a terrifying role model in irony. It is your coup de gras. 

You're smiling to yourself when the tent opens again. It's no longer light outside, which is good to see. It means you don't have too much longer in here before the main show begins. On the other hand, it means that there's a customer, which is not exactly your jam. 

'Welcome to the Tent of Sight,' you say dutifully. 'Only $10 for a full tarot reading with eerily accurate results.'

The guy walks in and your little gay heart skips a beat. He's as cute as he is dorky and with those inch thick glasses, he's hella fucking dorky. 

'Hey!' he says. 'I'm John.'

'Hi John,' you say. 'I'm Dirk, I'll be your seer this evening.' 

Oh god, you sound like Dave. While that's usually the dream, you really don't need to be trying to pull off his brand of cool. 

'Fortune?' you say, your voice a bit strangled. 

Yeah, that's the smooth Dirk Strider experience. You hold out the cards to him as if he's supposed to do something with them. He sits on the cushions in front of the table and you force yourself to just be cool. Just this one time, you would like to be cool.

'What do I do?' John asks, his voice hushed. 

You look at the cards in your hands. Yeah, maybe your problem earlier was that you offered tea leaves, not literally everything about your delivery and the fact that your customer was a psycho bitch. 

'Place your hand on the deck,' you tell him.

He does. You have a tiny freak out over the fact that you're almost holding hands and then mentally chop your head off like Kanaya threatened to do earlier. 

'Thank you,' you say, because he seems to be waiting for some prompt to stop doing that. You're so proud of your tact. You have to tell Roxy about it later. She's the one who gave you the tip in her ironic-and-yet-insultingly-useful handbook to being a real life person she made for your 15th birthday. 

'Now the cards ... have your aura,' you improvise.

John looks at you doubtfully. You keep your face expressionless. You doubt you too. It's a well-tread road for you.

'What kind of reading do you want?' you ask. You're on fire remembering the right things to say. Ish. Close enough to fool someone who has never done this before. Maybe. 

'There are different kinds?' John asks.

Fuck. Yeah, there are. Fuck. What are they.

'Fortune,' you say. You mentally facepalm. Duh. 'As in career,' you correct. 'Love.' God you sound awkward. 'Uh, guidance. For a problem. Basic.'

John doesn't seem to have much confidence in your ability. You try and do the weird smile thing that Rose does that makes her look like a witch. And then you remember what you look like when you smile and stop. 

‘Well, I just lost my job and I don’t have any problems,’ John says thoughtfully. ‘Maybe just the basic one?’

Right. Shitfuckdamn, how are you supposed to spread these things. 

You shuffle them like a card dealer while you buy time, and then you remember that you’ve never seen Rose do that and stop. What do you do?

‘Top or bottom?’ you remember suddenly.

‘What.’ John says. 

Oh … sweet baby Jesus. Oh wow. Oh no. 

‘From the top of the deck or the bottom of the deck,’ you say, your voice robot-toned as you process your awkwardness.

‘Top?’ he says.

Do not comment. _Do not comment_. Dirk Strider, for once in your life, _DO NOT COMMENT_.

You successfully manage not to comment.

You cut the deck in half and put the bottom half to the side. You’re entirely making this up, but you think it’s close to being right. You start to walk your fingers against the cards, pulling them slowly into your other hand to expose the ones underneath.

‘Tell me when to stop.’

John waits until you’re nearly at the bottom of the stack before he says, ‘Stop.’

You pull out the card with a flourish before you remember _again_ that this isn’t blackjack. You squint at the card, trying to figure out which one it is. The lighting’s pretty poor in the tent and the card itself has pretty dark colours. Is that a cup?

‘Three of pentacles,’ you say, your voice slightly triumphant. ‘Oh, it’s the one with the craftsman. So in the past, this card is your past by the way, you were accomplished. Maybe in an artistic way? Maybe admired for it?’

‘I used to play the piano?’ John says doubtfully. ‘I was alright.’

‘That’s probably it,’ you say, rolling your eyes to yourself as you place the card on the table in front of you. Be pretty surprising if anyone came in who hadn’t at some point done an artistic thing in their past. You force your cynicism down.

‘Okay, top or bottom,’ you ask again.

‘Top.’

 _Do not comment_ , you remind yourself. This is the worst fucking job for you. You start to show him the cards again until he tells you to stop.

‘This is your present,’ you say as you draw it. ‘Oh, dope. King of swords.’

‘Dope?’ John asks. 

‘The pony version of him’s even better,’ you tell him. ‘Right, so this dude represents masculine power. Duh, look at his big sword.’ John’s eyes drop to your hip where you guess he’s noticed your sword. ‘Um, it’s not necessarily you, but someone in your life is hella authoritative. Could be you. Could be your dad, this is a good card for daddy issues.’

‘I don’t have daddy issues,’ John says. 

‘Cool, me neither,’ you say.

You’re both quiet for a bit as John fails to do the customer side where he speculates on what it could mean. You put the card on the table with the other one and pick up the deck again.

‘Top,’ he says, before you even ask. ‘Stop.’

Oh cool, death.

‘Does that say death?’ he asks, sounding slightly alarmed.

‘Yeah, it comes for us all,’ you joke. Wait, not the right approach. ‘It doesn’t actually mean _literally_ death,’ you say quickly. ‘In tarot, it’s all about change, you know? You planning on making a change in the future?’ 

‘No,’ John says, not taking his eyes off the grim reaper on his horse. ‘There’s a plan … I just gotta follow it.’

‘You’ll probably know it when you see it,’ you tell him. 

Unless it’s his death. Ha. Probably shouldn’t say that to him. 

‘Are you a real fortune teller?’ John asks.

‘Yep,’ you lie. If you were a bit more slick, you might have said something like, “real as they come,” but you think Rose would probably take issue and she’d _definitely_ know. Somehow.

‘Okay,’ John says. He pulls out his wallet and puts a note on the table over the top of the death card before standing up. 

‘Change can be good, bro,’ you say, trying to be somewhat comforting. ‘I’ve definitely heard people say that.’

‘Thanks,’ he murmurs before leaving the tent. 

Right. That could have gone better. At least you can stop being a seer now. It’s time for the show.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pops is alpha Dave and Bro is beta Bro. I have ... way too much backstory on how they came to the circus and got their kids but let's not derail the fun with that!

‘Ladies and Gentlemen!’ your pops calls out, arms spread wide and head back as if he genuinely enjoys all the eyes on him. He does, kinda. Just in small doses and when he’s being especially ridiculous.

‘This is not the show you may have seen if you loved us enough to come for a repeat show! This is our “oh shit, the whole circus is _sick_ ” show! You know how long it’s been since I put on tights? Actually, not that long, but that’s between me and my husband.”

The audience laughs and Pops bows appreciatively. 

‘And speaking of, I’ve managed to convince the big, ugly bastard to come play with me today. He’s been playing nurse, but don’t let that fool you, dude’s not any kind of softie you’ve encountered before. In fact, no one else likes him throwing knives at them, and you’ll see why in a sec, but I have it on good authority he likes me with all my bits on.’

You smirk at Bro beside you and he rolls his eyes. He hasn’t been playing nurse because he cares about how sick Rose has been. He’s been playing nurse because he’s morbidly fascinated by sick people. When you checked on her earlier, he was egging her to throw up like a frat boy might encourage someone to chug from a keg.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, you better effin’ clap for this guy because I’m the one who shares his caravan, give it up for Big-Bad-Bro!’

Your pops says it like it’s one word, all in a breath, like it’s an insult and a compliment all at once. He’s always done that, used Bro’s stage name as a warning when he pushes too far (and God _damn_ he can push too far) and like a pet name when they’re sweet, not that they show that side often. And Bro does what he always does, straightens his cap so he can smother his smile while anyone with a brain in their head is keeping their eyes on his hands, not his lips. 

He runs out onto the stage and waves in that way he has like he hates that he needs to draw attention to himself (or maybe you’re projecting because you take after him so much). Before he’s even finished with his wave, he’s flicking his wrist and a knife flies from his sleeve to go right for Pops’ head. Pops doesn’t move an inch, because he’s not an idiot. Several blond hairs fall to the ground as the knife flies past him to land in the middle of a target, right on the red circle. 

Pops backs up, hands up as if he’s scared, tiny smirk on his face like he couldn’t ever be. Bro doesn’t take his eyes off him, though he pulls out six more tiny blades, three in each hand, and pulls them out so they gleam in the spotlights. Pops ends up with his back pressed against the target, and less than a second later there are two knives pinning his sleeves there. 

You’re good with basically anything with an edge, and probably with sticks and staffs and whatever too, but you don’t think you’ll ever be as good as Bro. He and Pops have been practicing since they were kids, and you’ve never had the advantage of thinking someone actually wanted to hit you with the knives they threw. You also have never had the confidence they have in each other. 

It’s … kinda hard to watch. Like, those are your dads. They could stand to look a little less like they’re enjoying it. 

Pops has 11 knives surrounding him now. The last one Bro threw was _high_ up on his thigh, like, really high, like maybe a guy who wasn’t his husband wouldn’t have known that was a safe place to aim for. The crowd fucking loves it. 

‘They’re so gross,’ Roxy says, and you didn’t hear her come up to you ‘til the last second but you keep your cool.

‘They’re in love,’ you say.

‘That’s what I said, leh-may-oh.’ Lmao. Jesus. You’re related to her.

‘What’re you doing on this side of the tent?’ you ask.

‘The clowns are sick now, too.’

You groan. 

‘Not all of them, but you know what they’re like. 50 to a caravan makes it spread, lol.’

You roll your eyes and subtly check that there are no clowns listening. They can be touchy bastards, when the mood suits them. For a family that’s renown for jokes, they don’t have much of a sense of humour for shit like that. 

‘So, why are you here? Don’t you have tigers to wrangle?’

‘Obvs, you know I’m the _bomb_ when it comes to wrangling pussy—’

‘Rox …’

‘Buuuut, we’re short a few players! An’ I swear to fuckin’ God, talkin’ of pussies, half this circus has forgotten what it is to be brave!’

‘Rox.’

Roxy steps in front of you so you can’t miss her grin. You melt, just a bit. If you know your face, though, it doesn’t show. Roxy grins like it does.

‘Plz, babes, no one else can ride Jaspers ‘cept me, and I need someone on the whip. Jaspers’ll fuckin’ know if someone scaredy-cat tries to lead him, it straight up won’t work.’

‘I’m supposed to be filling in for an acrobat that’s sick,’ you say, gesturing at your ridiculous costume. 

‘So make it part of the show! Me an’ Jaspers’ll go first—’

‘Jaspers and I—’

‘And then you leap outta the ring and onto the ropes, right?’

You watch as your dads (Pops now free of the knives that had him pinned, and you’re kinda glad you were distracted from the bit where Bro let him go, because ick, dads) start a swordfight. So much better than you and Dave. So much flashier, faster, more thrilling because you’re sure they’re going to slip up and hurt each other for real.

‘You want to overwork me,’ you say.

‘You want to overwork yourself,’ she replies. 

She has too much faith in you. You’re fucking itching to meet her challenge. Damn, you’re predictable. 

‘If I pull up sore tomorrow …’

‘I’ll find a pretty boy to rub your muscles,’ she says, grinning. 

Your ears are hot, you know that means they’re red, maybe your cheeks too if you’re unlucky, but you nod as stoically as you can. Christ, you’re glad your dads are too occupied to see how well Roxy can always get to you. You’ve never seen Bro blush. You can’t remember if you’ve seen Pops blush, but it’s more likely. You guess with a husband like Bro, he has experience keeping a straight face in pretty extreme circumstances..

‘Do you have a Zyrtec or something?’

Ridiculous that the only person Roxy trusts with her big cats is the one who is allergic to them, but there you go. 

The show is surprisingly awesome, even though you’re down a lot of players and your family seems to be the ones picking up the slack. A newer clown that you think you picked up last year somehow manages to get himself centre stage, which makes you think that he absolutely made the other clowns sick in an understudy diva kind of way, because he looks fuckin’ jazzed about his promotion. He’s good, though. For a clown. And you’re not one of the fuckers throwing up, so who cares.

You’re bone tired after basically quadruple shifting it, and even the fact that your brother’s new friend hasn’t left your van isn’t enough to keep you from sleeping. 

You’re less comfortable with having a roommate you aren’t related to when you wake up, though thankfully before he does.

Dave’s awake, and looking like he’d rather not be. He doesn’t usually sweat, and all the life’s gone out of his skin. It takes him a bit to focus on you when he hears you sit up.

‘You look fucked,’ you tell him.

‘I wish,’ he says, glancing at the guy slumped awkwardly on the couch next to him. You roll your eyes. ‘How’s Rose?’

‘Apparently still sick enough to take Bro’s attention.’

Dave grimaces. None of you get sick easy, but you’ve all had to endure Bro’s fascination with it when you have. At least he keeps you hydrated while he’s getting whatever the fuck it is he gets out of it.

‘So you’re gonna play seer again today?’

You groan and flip away from him before you remember that it’s not just him and you’re not one to turn your back on anyone. You turn back over and glare at him instead. Yeah, you guess you are. Maybe you’ll be able to have a cat nap if you get a lull. 

*

The guy from last night is back, poking his head through the heavy tent flap like he's not sure anyone's in here. You cough so he knows where to look and he jumps out of his skin. He grins when he sees you though, which is baffling. You thought he probably hated you after the terrible fortune you gave him.

'Welcome to the Tent of Sight,' you say. 'Only $10 for a full tarot reading with eerily accurate results.'

'I spent all my money on you yesterday!' he says.

You shrug. You don't make the rules. Well, you kind of do, but that really isn't important.

'Isn't there any other way I could pay you?' he says, stepping closer to your ridiculous pile of cushions and crouching as if he's going to take a seat.

You try and think of a single time you have heard that phrase where the person wasn't meaning sex. You can't. You watch too much porn.

'What, are you offering to kiss me?' you ask, deadpan. 'Sure, John, plant one on me and I'll read your fortune.'

He sits on the cushions in front of you and you sigh, because that's not leaving you for actual paying customers. But then he leans in and does kiss you, which you were somehow very much not expecting.

For what is probably only a second but feels like a lifetime, you're frozen, but then you remember that people generally like it when you kiss them back, so you do, hands clutching the pillow you're sitting on so you don't do something stupid like run your fingers through his stupidly cute hair.

When he pulls back, he's red in the cheeks and smiling shyly. You have no idea how to respond. This is absolutely not in the handbook of social interactions that Roxy made for you as a joke. Which, actually, is kind of weird.

'Um,' he says, his eyes flicking to yours for only the briefest of moments before he's looking back at the floor. 'Can you tell me my future now?'

You don't even run through the options in your head. You speak without thinking for what feels like one of the first times ever. You grab his hand and hold it palm up.

'Says you're going to run away with the circus, bro,' you say. 'How convenient there's one in town to run away with.'


End file.
